


the sky stays empty as we burn

by romanticai (sinjaebeom)



Category: NINE PERCENT (Band), 乐华七子NEXT | NEX7, 偶像练习生 | Idol Producer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996) Fusion, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Hellfire (Hunchback of Notre Dame Song), Inspired by Notre-Dame de Paris | The Hunchback of Notre Dame, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, basically xukun as frollo and zhengting as esmeralda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-16 22:43:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14820323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinjaebeom/pseuds/romanticai
Summary: xukun is the archdeacon of paris and he should feel good about operating under god's hand, but, for reasons much bigger than him, he only feels good when looking at a certain gypsy whose eyes are full of wild and witchcraft.





	the sky stays empty as we burn

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: the word _gyps*_ is a racial slur and was only used to maintain historical consistency.  
>  in no way do i support or tolerate racial discrimination of any kind.
> 
> i recommend listening to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uINqPnR1BNw) while reading, it's what inspired this whole au! this was cross-posted on [livejournal](https://romanticai.livejournal.com/351.html).
> 
> ❦
> 
> _“then tell me, maria,_  
>  _why i see her dancing there,_  
>  _why her smouldering eyes_  
>  _still scorch my soul?_  
>  _i feel her, i see her,_  
>  _the sun caught in her raven hair_  
>  _is blazing in me out of all control”_  
> 

xukun’s only prerogative was to purify the whole of Paris and make sure the people would have been ready for the second coming. his inner workings all tended to earth’s lord and saviour and he couldn’t have been prouder of his mission. the best way to truly know a man is to see how he acts in front of a god. and xukun’s irreprehensible moral attitude was not only a hint of vanity, but also an imaginary pat on his back by god himself; or at least that’s how he saw it. that glint of superiority in his eyes he wore like a holy halo was enough to convince everyone else of that much, too. as of late, though, the archdeacon had been tormented with dilemmas which kept him up at night.  


his guards daily praised his strenuous efforts to depurate the _marveilleuse ville_ – the magnificent town that Paris was, appointing him the merit of having brushed the dirt off their jewel. but as much as xukun appreciated their ostentatious servility, he felt like something was missing. or actually, rather than missing, as if something was _still_ out of place. what more could god have wanted that he still hadn’t accomplished? poverty had been limited with rational siphoning of the resources, the streets had found back their original colourfulness and stateliness. the plague of the gypsy community persisted—but it was a matter of time before the city would have been wiped clean of them. 

as the archdeacon strolled about the cathedral of Notre Dame, he found himself admiring the single spire of the building from the passageway between the two turrets. the way the _flèche_ didn’t seem bothered by any earthly burdens, such as his, inspired him: it stood alone, in all its gothic grace, as a manifest to never let anyone become a hindrance to your path. it stood, in all its striking height and charm, unaffected, unattached. if xukun could have chosen to be reborn – if hyperboles could be trusted in a split second of childish madness – he would have picked that spire as his soul’s refuge. he would have been the most beautiful of all the scrutinising gargoyles because he would have resembled ascension rather than bestiality. what do men even need reasoning for when all it does is get contaminated with turbid passions? xukun’s last fleeting thought was that, maybe, just like the gargoyles, he was more stone than man, too. but as long as he didn’t share their feral traits, he could live with that. 

one day the carnival party took place – not one resident missing in the streets, flooding the main square with bonfires and laughter and vibrant hues, everyone almost forgetting summer nights were four months away still – and everyone’s alive. xukun was as excited as a farmer in november. his role was simple: he had to supervise the party-goers and send the guards hauling any gypsy they could spot. that was as easy as it was boring; it wasn’t even midday yet when xukun decided he could allow himself a break. he settled for a walk around the neighbourhood. the town had been turned upside down and that was the day he had to let it. his black cassock was a bleak bruise in a concert of blossoms. his hat shadowed his restless features. everything he wore – from the shoes to the rings – was a reminder he was nothing if he wasn’t god’s. he was black against black where god would have painted white if he were deserving. xukun’s last fleeting thought was that, maybe, his doubting was dangerous. 

whenever he was in deep pain or felt at a loss, he turned all his murmurs and unshed tears to the omnipotent saviour. _is this pagan fest supposed to make you feel wrong?_ , he asked. _is it wrong that i feel wrong?,_ he insisted. _lord, please, show me the way_ , he prayed. and he was heard; by a gypsy. as he was about to scream for the guards, the gypsy hovered a finger on his lips and silenced him with a glance. he had pretty hazel eyes, the colour of a _mousse au chocolat_. xukun licked his lips instinctively. he stilled for a moment, the gypsy fumbling with his small sack, seemingly looking for something. the boy was wearing a loose white blouse on tight-fitting black trousers. he was also barefoot and full of surprises, as his numerous shiny earrings and bracelets suggested. xukun was debilitated by the lack of fear or anger in the gypsy’s eyes. it wasn’t him whom the pest was disrespecting, but his office and thus the lord himself. pride and contempt surged in his chest and fused, forging the outline of an iron sword. xukun extracted his dagger, a ruby in a gold mount visible on the tiny hilt. the gypsy looked at the jewel, then back at him and snickered. 

_“que haces, monseigneur, no ves que soy desarmado?”,_ said the boy with a click of his tongue. 

“i know you’re unarmed, yes” – replied xukun, understanding his language perfectly – “but i don’t know what your intentions are and you clearly don’t know mine either.” 

“i know who you are, sir, but you’re not as threatening as _mi familia_ says you are. i am surprised to see you’re unwilted and humane enough to spare my life.” 

“who said i’d spare you?” 

“well, you did. it’s all there”, murmured the boy as he pointed to xukun’s face. 

the archdeacon was taken aback and lowered the dagger for just a moment, which was more than enough to allow the gypsy to grab his hand and move unacceptably closer. as xukun was about to protest and shove the villain to the ground, the boy whispered something in his ear and fled with the dagger. xukun was alone and lost as soon as the radiant presence was nowhere to be seen anymore. he fell to his knees and tried to calm himself down. for some reason, his heart was working faster than his mind and he prayed the lord to make him survive the moment. he recollected the few words sputtered moments before by the angel-like tramp and the urge to see those eyes again took the best of him. to no avail, considering he didn’t even know the boy’s name. it felt as if a wildfire had started in the middle of the antechamber of his soul and all it encountered were impasses. walls. stone. because xukun was more stone than man, just like the gargoyles, but something was boiling in his veins, itching, burning, tearing him apart. and he just wanted to stand up and persuade himself the gypsy had infected him with some sort of malicious virus, but he knew he wasn’t so naive. 

_“tus ojos lloran que eso dio que tanto amas no te ama como querias.”_

* 

the outskirts of Paris were just as unsettling as the Court of Miracles sounded in vulgar tell-tales, with the difference it was real. xukun, riding his stark white horse across the entire capital, couldn’t stop thinking he was following the wrong maps, trusting the wrong guides. there was no way a group of ants could hide from sunburn if not under a rock, so that’s exactly where he instructed his guards to look for the fantabulous town. he secretly called the Court that because the idea of a town in a town felt prohibited in the most alluring way; like he had faulted in his mission and it was arousing to know he was doing it on purpose. there was a certain fascination behind auto-sabotaging something important because of something trivial: triviality had started to taste different ever since that fateful encounter. all those wildfire-suffocating stares on his heavy heart and, in the end, his eyes met those of a gypsy. the fire had grown rather than subdued. it ran like gasoline right under his skin and was slowly pivoting him out of the enlightened path. all those lifelong paranoias regarding materiality and, in the end, he was the bite mark on eve’s apple. prohibited, alluring. like the Court of Miracles. 

he couldn’t, of course, disclose he believed in the existence of the gypsies’ cove, but they surely were good at hide and seek, which made the idea of that place more concrete. the guards blindly followed his orders through the narrow alleys that layered Paris that day. the archdeacon lowered his head on the brittle path they were trotting on and wished for the pretty tramp to appear to show him the way. which, much to xukun’s disbelief, he did. xukun’s last fleeting thought was that, maybe, that was god’s doing, after all. the boy was right there in front of them, a red apple in his graceful hands. xukun took in everything – from the rebellious hair to the fruit held so close to his lips to the lively glint in his eyes – and his first instinct was to run. but he couldn’t move. 

“here we meet again, don cai”, said the boy quietly. 

xukun didn’t react, not giving into the panic which threatened to give him away. the soldiers looked at him, ignoring the prey’s words, and in their eyes the archdeacon recognised the desire to murder. he had seen them in action multiple times, every occasion laced with ferocity and lack of necessity, and knew how much blood didn’t phase them. he felt out of place amidst violence for the first time, he felt scared; as if his life depended on those few seconds which separated him from the _gitan_. he intently looked into the boy’s eyes and wished he could read them again like on carnival day; the guards hopped off their horses. when the boy stepped forward, xukun’s throat locked his voice in while his guards screamed. he didn’t move, nor attempted to, as the gypsy, swift as wind, silently stabbed the two guards where their hearts once stood prideful and blind. he didn’t remember dying being so quiet. he wondered how it felt dying for no reason. was it like making up a dream or like waking up in a nightmare? did it feel like finally seeing god or like finally discovering he has never loved any of us? xukun blinked, tearlessly, and stared at his own dagger being cleaned. passion crimson, snow white, iron silver. the horses were gone, except his which was strangely calm. 

“you don’t look shaken, but rather relieved” 

“i could say the same about you”, uttered xukun. 

“i didn’t die. i assume that’s your reason, too” 

xukun’s lips drew a taut line, he didn’t dare respond. 

_“me llamo_ zhengting. ask of me if you’ll ever need to” 

with that, he was gone, much like xukun’s sanity. 

the hardest part of long summers in France was the inescapable heat. as xukun suffered through sleepless nights tormented by the fire in his lungs, he thought of the stars. of the way they shone, incandescent, painlessly. of the way he glared, painfully, looking nothing like the sun. he prayed and prayed, then wished upon one of those faraway lights to be granted more time. he couldn’t die an unborn man. he couldn’t die before carrying out god’s plan and fulfilling the promises he made Paris. but did god even want him as his son anymore, did he even want him to live anymore? maybe he would have never been forgiven. maybe he was testing him. 

for months, all he did was watch over people from the safety Notre Dame assured him with. the incident was reported to his superiors with a telegram and they promptly supplied worthy replacements without a question: same murderous gaze, same blind hearts. xukun didn’t join in on any patrolling anymore. he didn’t really know whether zhengting was alive still, but something about how easily he had slaughtered the guards told him he was. and he wanted to see him, to see him and see himself, which he could only do when he met the gypsy. would he have held that white slender neck between his fingers and kissed him or strangled him? the dilemma proved xukun he was turning delirious, but he couldn’t help it. he couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t. when it came to zhengting, there was nothing he _could_. except repeat his name over and over and over, like his favourite prayer, like his all-around cure. his only certainty, north star, and it was finally enough. with the sliver of rationality he had left, he tried his best not to confuse his ultimate purpose and zhengting, but it proved to be much harder than he found it in himself to admit. 

one sunday morning, xukun wandered too far from his _arrondissement_. it was far too hot that day and the thought of having to go back into the funereal Notre Dame right after his duties felt like voluntary imprisonment. the least he could do to help himself was to get a breath of fresh air. he wandered and was led by his feet about the outskirts again. he was unaccompanied and mildly excited. his churning stomach confusedly spun its arrow like a lost compass, so xukun didn’t listen. he was the type to relish anticipation to forget the dizziness that stemmed from monotony. besides, not being allowed to indulge in pleasure made fantasies better than nothing. that’s why he turned left and right, street after street, neighbourhood after neighbourhood, in hope to meet him. but he didn’t. 

as soon as he was back to the cathedral, fuming, he bit his hands to keep himself from screaming. the red marks reminded him once again of the apple eve had exchanged so much for. did she do it just because she was told not to or because she was desperate to know what the consequences would have been? was she so unsatisfied in the garden of eden that, of all the other fruits, she could only think of that one? xukun closed his eyes and sighed in understanding. he couldn’t really blame her when he was guilty of the same craving, too. he stared at his slightly swollen hands and blinked away the urge to cry rising in him. his last fleeting thought was that, maybe, he was the sin rather than the sinner. 

he didn’t try anymore after that day. 

* 

they met again when the leaves were starting to fall from the trees. 

zhengting was taken to xukun’s presence by a guard who had caught him stealing apples. from the mischievous glint in the boy’s eyes, the archdeacon knew he had done it on purpose. what a fool, he was— but oh, what a fool was xukun, too. he asked to be left alone with the captive and winced imperceptibly at the guard’s wicked grin. as soon as they were alone, xukun got a hold of the rope hanging from zhengting’s neck and pulled as if it were a leash. 

“they set you up nicely, bastard; if it weren’t for me this rope would be already hanging from the ceiling of the main tower” 

“i have an offer to make”, said zhengting before spitting out blood. xukun made it a point not to suffer over the bad shape he was in. 

“i give you your dagger back, you let me go. deal?” 

xukun chuckled. did he really think he had so much leverage on him that he would have let him free that easily? if there was one thing xukun didn’t bargain over was his spotless reputation. besides, now that he had zhengting where he wanted, on his knees, he couldn’t just waste the opportunity. a pang of guilt consumed his resolve gradually, then annihilated it when he made the mistake to turn around. zhengting’s beautiful lips were bloody, much like his cheekbones and nose; his tired eyes were painted in terror. there was something off about his behaviour, something which struck xukun with realisation: they weren’t playing. this was not one of the archdeacon’s forbidden dreams, nor a staged ploy unravelling before his eyes. zhengting ended up in his hands by mistake and wouldn’t have been able to leave. not with xukun’s pride and guards in the way. 

“how” – _could you slip up so badly_ was what he wanted to say, but – “did you get caught stealing? i thought your kin only stole at night”. that was the best xukun could come up with without sounding ridiculously sorry or desperate. 

“i—i wasn’t stealing. i was going back home, but i think one of the guards recognised the dagger i carried.” 

xukun’s face paled, his fist tightly holding onto the rope. if they had recognised it, that meant they had lied about the reason they had arrested zhengting. which also meant they were probably waiting to burst into the room and kill both of them. xukun’s laboured breathing didn’t go unnoticed. 

“don cai… xukun… let me go and you can tell them i stole the dagger from you… _te imploro_ ” 

zhengting’s pleads melted into his ears like honey in tea. he so wanted to allow the gypsy to escape, but he couldn’t ignore the consequences. he couldn’t die when he still hadn’t figured out what he was alive for. he looked at zhengting and knew he would regret any decision which didn’t involve a kiss. so he did just that. the gypsy was taken aback at first, but eventually yielded. xukun didn’t dare ask why he had, he knew he wouldn’t have liked the answer. the archdeacon noticed he had kneeled for someone who wasn’t god and felt ashamed. he still let his body take what he wanted as long as zhengting allowed and he found out gypsies were generous in that. if the world was ending for them that night, he figured one more sin wouldn’t have changed anything. 

as xukun held zhengting and laid him down in his bed, he found the world weighed less when he only cared for one body at a time. when the body was warm and didn’t stain his conscience red. he didn’t need to beg god to save his soul when zhengting could touch it so effortlessly. looking into the other boy’s half-lidded eyes meant standing as close to the divine truth as xukun could have ever gotten. he wished for that moment to end right then and there – everyone knows things which last longer are bound to deteriorate faster – so that he could store it in his memory and treasure it forever. zhengting got up from the bed and got dressed. xukun looked at him wait, wordlessly, for a sign. but he didn’t want him to go—he wanted to keep him in Notre Dame, secluded from the world’s eyes and collect endless forever’s with him: cut-short yet perfect forever’s worth more than any confession. he apologised to god for putting someone else first and hoped he, who had a child without ever loving, could forgive him once more. 

“if i let you go, it won’t end well. stay and be mine. i’ll protect you and your people”, murmured xukun. 

zhengting couldn’t hide his contempt. he hadn’t even while xukun kissed, undressed, loved him. but the archdeacon didn’t blame him; he just couldn’t accept it. 

“you’re free to go, ‘ting. just know that if you walk out that door, you’ll be dead to me” 

“i would have been anyway” 

with that, zhengting left for good. 

if he had been fair, he would have told zhengting he had found out where the Court of Miracles was. that he would have used that to distract the guards from any possible accuse against his integrity. that he would have made the gypsies suffer because he was a coward who couldn’t win anything for himself, by himself, even though he longed for it so badly. he hoped, in one last spur of selfishness, that zhengting would have come back to him, that he would have changed his mind. the last delusions are always those which cover the shame of refusal. 

as soon as the sun was shining again – not that it made any difference for an insomniac anyway – xukun instructed his underling to locate and destroy the utopian town. the soldiers, ecstatic, equipped every department to eradicate the pest that infected their beloved Paris. before they left, xukun called to the side the guards who had arrested zhengting. 

“you lied about the reason you took the gypsy”, said the archdeacon sternly. 

the guards, ashamed, lowered their gaze to their feet and tried their best to make their answer audible. 

“we are regretful, don cai. we just noticed he was barefoot and gross-looking, so we thought you might have wanted to interrogate him. should we have killed him on the spot, don?” 

xukun froze, speechless. they hadn’t seen the weapon zhengting was carrying. they had taken him captive just because. xukun would have rather died, at that point. 

“he… he isn’t a gypsy” – xukun lied, moved by a newly found courage – “i let him go because of that. he is part of the destitute of Paris and we don’t call our people _gross_ , understood? also, never kill anyone unless you are absolutely certain they’re gypsies. you did the right thing… bringing him to me. you did a good job. now go” 

xukun surprised himself by being so convincing and coherent despite feeling the complete opposite. as the guards giddily left, content with the praising, the young archdeacon crumbled into despair. if zhengting, his muse and everything, was about to die, it was his fault entirely. him, with his sparkling jewels and fading eyes. him, with his unjust arrogance and profound regret. him, who had valued all the wrong things instead of the only right one. 

he had stripped a kind soul of his dignity and for what? a night to go back to as he prayed, recited psalms, or confessed believers? it had taken him twenty years and a mistake to understand what he preached was empty if he didn’t love. and now he was going to lose all of it again. he prayed one last time and hoped it wouldn’t have been in vain. 

* 

everything ends the way it started. in xukun’s case, with fire. 

as he observed Paris from the highness of Notre Dame, dense smoke bloodied the sky in black. the remnants of a concrete utopia shed ink on the vastness of the universe, writing its own story in hope nobody would forget. xukun never would for sure. 

the screams and cries made Parisians close their windows, shut their eyes tight. xukun’s prayers followed one another in spirals, chasing each other’s tails aimlessly. how wrong it felt to be praying for salvation when he been the one to order destruction out of spite, vengeful as god could be. he had been with him just as much as with eve: he had dared tasting life and was doomed to suffer eternally for his _hybris_. 

the tears which threatened to leave his morose eyes clouded his vision. the fire didn’t burn as blindingly like this and the smoke didn’t look as eerie. was he a man anymore after what he had done? the quiet ensued. only the crackling of the flames resisted and insisted. no, he reasoned, he was half a man; his heart was torn into two. 

suddenly, a woman shouted: _“donde estas, dios mio? estas muerto tu también? moriste con mi hijo?”_ and xukun realised how close she was to the cathedral. he could see her, tiny and defenceless as an ant, clutching an even tinier body so tightly before collapsing on the stairs of Notre Dame. no, he concluded, he was no longer a man; his heart was torn into millions. 

he looked away from the windows, the nightmarish image of zhengting burning in the hellfire he had ignited screamed _“justice!”_ in his mind. his knees turned weak and forced him to sit down on his bed. he caressed the sheets where his dearest had laid, buried his nose in them. he cried: banishment from eden wouldn’t have been as excruciating. xukun’s emptiness finally had a name and for once it wasn’t a synonym for absence; all his favourite things weren’t abstract, at that point. he wondered if a person could have only one favourite thing and attach to it the meaning of everything else that was beautiful. 

“ _beata maria_ , grant me the blessing of forgetfulness”, he whispered, feverishly. 

a gentle breeze came in from the windows telling a story of destruction. it was true that every bit you take from the world makes its way back to you in the worst possible way. that is why everyone’s taught to be selfless, so that they become, by habit, too good to understand life’s taking something away from them. but xukun had never been one to give without wanting anything in return—and that is how tragedies start. 

it took him all winter to figure out how to look presentable. he had been lucky enough to be granted some time off for himself after his excellent job with the eradication. he was popularly considered a leader by both Parisians and the upper-hands. he wondered if god would have been as satisfied with who he had become. he had stopped murmuring prayers under his breath as it had dawned on him that, maybe, he was just talking to himself and, maybe, that meant _he_ had to respond to them. 

he still attended to his duties as diligently as before, but every day he made sure to cut himself some time to visit the area where once stood the Court of Miracles. it was well-hidden; it should have stayed that way. in the beginning, there used to be ashes and remnants of all kinds of things on the ground and he had been more than delighted to notice none of those were human. he walked, shoes in his hands, in the freezing snow and sought shivers. he felt more alive there, barefoot and half-frozen; in Notre Dame he was all ice. 

it didn’t take much for spring to come. his unusual habit had been noticed by the citizens, who had brushed it off as the archdeacon’s magnanimity to remember even those who should have stayed forgotten. xukun never mentioned it at any sunday celebration. he waited and waited for someone to accuse him of betrayal, of blasphemy because he was so ready to proclaim himself guilty and die and be reborn. but everyone loved him. they loved him when he committed a genocide, when he established ridiculous rules, when he formalised public executions of traitors – who were mostly innocent – and even when he abolished carnival. everyone was blindly content because he was god’s messenger and if that was what god wanted, then they were glad to oblige. maybe, that was god’s true punishment for his cruelty: living as a dead man. 

xukun remembered the spire of Notre Dame he had adored so deeply. he kept thinking about how Paris would have changed if he were to disappear. would it have been for the better? would someone kinder have taken his place? did any of that matter anymore at all? the difference between good and bad stands until someone nullifies it, like he had. he looked at the spire and realised he had been wrong all along. he thought of zhengting’s smile, his nape crowned in yellow flowers and his eyes filled with stars. he hadn’t been a mistake—he was the only thing he had done right. 

xukun’s last fleeting thought was that, maybe, if he couldn’t be neither a man nor a star, he would have become a black hole. 

so he did. 

**Author's Note:**

> low-case is intentional (i swear)
> 
> hope you liked this! thanks for reading! xx
> 
> (edit: i have a [twitter](https://twitter.com/sinjaebeom)! come ramble with me about your favs! x)


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